


Like a Bad Penny

by Eligh



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Backstory, Fix-It, M/M, Slice of Life, spoilers for 1x15
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-08 15:47:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6861301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eligh/pseuds/Eligh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're still in juvie the first time Len promises that he won't leave Mick alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like a Bad Penny

“Touch him again and I’ll kill you,” Mick says, his voice low, rumbling, damaged by smoke. It’s a man’s voice coming from a sixteen-year-old’s mouth, and the orange-jumpsuited shitbag holding onto the new kid’s neck drops him in shock.

“He insulted me,” Shitbag says, rounding up on Mick and pulling himself to his full height, a sneer curling his lip. He’s not as intimidating as he thinks he is, though, and Mick fights down a smirk at the posturing. On the ground, the kid spits a glob of blood into the dirt and glares through a black eye.

“You’re just so goddamn stupid,” he says suddenly, blue eyes glinting. He’s raspy and thready, what with just being choked and all, but his words are clear. “It’s hard not to insult you. You lower the IQ of the prison by simply existing.”

Shitbag snarls and lunges; Mick, with great economy of movement, punches him in the throat. He drops like a bag of flour, clutching his neck and wheezing, while Mick steps over him and offers the kid a hand up.

“I’m Mick,” he says, and lifts his eyebrows. “And you don’t know when to quit, do you?”

“Leo,” the kid says distantly, taking Mick’s hand and allowing himself to be hauled up from the dirt. He spits more blood, this time directly onto Shitbag’s jumpsuit. “Or, I mean. Leonard. Len.” He coughs a little and meets Mick’s eyes. “And why quit when you’re clearly winning?”

“You and I have some very different definitions of ‘winning,’ kid,” Mick rumbles. Len widens his eyes innocently and then kicks Shitbag in the ribs.

“If this is losing,” he drawls, his eyes sparking with mischief, “then I’d hate to see you win.”

~

It’s easy, between the two of them, even though it shouldn’t be. Mick is, admittedly, a bit of a hothead, while Len’s the dictionary definition of cool and calculating. And it’s largely because of this, that even after six months thrown together in this hell of a juvie hall, Mick still isn’t sure why Len keeps hanging around.

Not that he’s complaining, not at all.

~

“I’ll always watch your back,” Len imparts drunkenly, swaying dangerously into Mick’s personal space. Mick rests a heavy hand on the back of his neck and breathes him in, the sweet smell of their smuggled booze almost overwhelming. Len gets out tomorrow, but Mick’s got another three months.

So tonight’s a celebration of sorts, a goodbye-for-now, a promise of a friendship that’ll continue on the outside. And even if Mick doesn’t believe that Len’s gonna remember, Len certainly seems to think he will. Case in point: Len smacks Mick’s leg with the flat of his hand. “Mick, Mick, _Mick_ —you know, you _know_ , right?” He’s a lightweight, but what else is he supposed to be at fifteen?

“I know,” Mick says, not entirely sure what he’s agreeing to. “Sure I know, Lenny.”

“Nah,” Len says, insinuating himself further against Mick’s side, the cuddly jackass. He’s touch-starved, not that Mick knows what that’s like. Because _Mick_ doesn’t care, he just goes along with it for Lenny’s sake. “Nah, you don’t. Y’ think—” Len pauses, hiccups, and tries again. “Y’ think that _you_ watch out for _me_ , but it’s the---it’s the other way. The other way ‘round.”

“Sure,” Mick agrees, back on track with their rambling conversation, easy and loose-limbed from the wine. “Whatever you say.”

“Whatever I say,” Len grumbles, and presses his nose against Mick’s neck. “Tha’s right.”

Mick’s almost certain that he’s drifted off, clinging like a fukkin barnacle to Mick’s side, when Len speaks again, his lips brushing through five-day stubble and sending shocks of shivers down Mick’s spine. “I’ll be here to pick you up when it’s your turn,” Len says softly. “I’ll come back for you.” He sighs. “Always.”

Mick turns his head slightly, just enough to bump his chin into Len’s forehead. He rests his lips at Len’s close-shorn widow’s peak.

It’s not a kiss, because it’s not like that. Not between them.

“Okay,” Mick says, and wraps his arm around Len’s waist. Holds on tight. Doesn’t matter if he doesn’t believe it; Len does, and that’s all that counts.

~

The day Mick’s released, he doesn’t have high hopes of a reunion with anyone other than his probie officer—and even that’s giving the guy a load of credit that Mick’s not sure he deserves. And sure enough, the parking lot’s deserted when he steps foot out into it, just a couple beat-up cars—belonging to the guards, probably—and a rusted motorcycle listing too far to the left on a bent kickstand.

“There’s a bus stop down the road,” one of the guards escorting him suggests, not unkindly. They eye the empty parking lot, and the guard clears his throat. “We could get you a ticket.”

“I—” Mick starts to say, but then the bushes on the far side of the lot rustle and a kid in a close-fitted navy peacoat and skinny jeans steps out, tugging leather gloves back down over his fingers. Mick’s breath stutters as Len catches his eye and grins.

“Told you I’d come back for you,” he drawls, and gestures behind him, toward the treeline, then toward the prison. “Sorry. Had to take a piss, didn’t want to step foot in there again.” He stops next to the sagging motorcycle and pats the seat. “Your chariot awaits, Mr. Rory.”

“Are you even old enough to drive that thing, Snart?” a guard—the one who’d offered the bus ticket—asks archly. Len opens his mouth in affronted shock and presses a leather-clad hand over his heart.

“Why, I’d never dream of operating a vehicle without a license,” he says, and then flaps a hand in Mick’s direction. “He’ll drive, obviously.”

The guard doesn’t blink. “How’d you get it here, then?”

Len tsks. “Some mysteries are meant to stay unsolved,” he intones, and then holds out a hand, beckoning. “C’mon Mick. Let’s go home.”

Mick goes without a word, buckling his tiny bag of possessions to the far back of the bike before swinging his leg over and flexing his hands on the supple grip of the handlebars. Len slides in behind him, strong thighs bracketing him close. Mick closes his eyes for a long moment, suddenly weirdly happy. It’s just—well, his friend came back.

The guards give up and go back inside, the gate rattling shut behind them with a finality that makes Mick’s heart soar.

“Y’came,” he rumbles once they’re alone, and he feels Len’s head duck quickly, the heat of his forehead resting for a split second on the back of his neck.

“Course I did,” Len says softly, honesty resonating there that’s only ever present when they’re alone. “Told you I would.” His hands settle on Mick’s hips, holding on. “I always will.”

Mick takes a deep breath and kicks the bike on, its engine roaring. He peels out of the parking lot, a grin on his face, and can just hear the laugh bubbling up against his back before the wind snatches it away.

~

Len leads the fuzz on a wild chase while Mick licks his wounds, spreads cooling salve over the burns on his hands, his arms. He’s almost certain that he’s gone too far this time, that Len will see the error of his ways, see how stupid it is to align yourself with a firebug like him, but—

Mick just about has a heart attack when Len drops down from the ceiling of the warehouse they’re holed up in, settling with a puff of dust and a heavy thud of boots. He’s frowning, but takes one look at Mick’s miserable face before he softens, pries the gel from Mick’s stiff fingers, and takes over the ministrations himself.

It’s only when he's carefully wrapping bandages around Mick’s forearms that Mick finds he’s able to clear his throat and ask. “Why’d ya, why did you come—”

“Shut up,” Len snaps, his fingers the very definition of gentle. “You’re my partner, Mick. Of course I came back.”

~

Len visits him in prison, a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. “I need to lay low,” he says. Apologizes. “Let things cool down. I won’t be able to come often, or at least not like this.”

Mick wasn’t expecting him to, and says as much. It’s his own damn fault he’s back in here, after all. Lenny would be better to just forget he ever existed.

The sentiment produces a familiar frown, and Len leans forward slightly, his long fingers snaking out, brushing lightly against the back of Mick’s hand. It’s quick enough that Mick’s almost sure he’s imagined it, because the next second Len’s hands are resting calmly on the table, a proper six inches away.

“I’ll come when I can,” Len promises, Mick’s thirty-year sentence stretching between them like razor wire. Len lowers his voice, all hint of his usual disinterested drawl absent. “Be ready,” he says.

And three weeks later, when Len’s standing outside Mick’s cell in a janitor’s uniform and wearing a stupid grin on his face, Mick’s glad he listened.

~

“I’m not leaving him. He’s my partner,” Len growls, his fingers flexing on the grip of his gun. Lisa rolls her eyes, but Mick, on the ground and gasping from what he’s almost certain is a punctured lung, only has eyes for Lenny.

“Go,” he says.

“Never,” Len snaps, and that’s that.

~

“It’s getting hard busting you out of here,” Len says conversationally, and Mick jumps. Len’s dressed as a guard this time, his comforting, familiar smirk the only thing giving him away. He lays one of his cool hands on Mick shoulder and subtly begins to steer him away from the rest of the work crew.

“You don’t gotta,” Mick rumbles, flexing his wrists beneath the handcuffs.

Len scoffs. “Of course I ‘gotta,’” he says, putting proper emphasis so Mick can hear the quotes around the word. His hand tightens for a moment on Mick’s shoulder. “Like I could leave you to rot.”

~

“I have a present for you,” Len says, six months out of the blue and smiling like Mick hadn’t tried to burn them both the last time they saw each other.

Mick eyes the bulky case on the table warily, and then cocks his head, trying to get an eyeful of the futuristic looking cannon strapped to Len’s thigh. Its barrel seems to be coated in a thin layer of ice.

“Why,” Mick asks slowly, honestly unsure of where they stand. He wonders if Len’s used these six months to really dwell, to come up with something nasty. He’s seen Len wreak vengeance before, and though it’s never been directed at Mick, it’s not something he’s in a hurry to experience. Len gives a whole new meaning to revenge served cold.

But Len’s brow just furrows. “Well I haven’t seen you, and I thought you would like it.” He gestures to the case. “I couldn’t think of anyone else who’d do as well with a flamethrower.”

Mick stares at him, but doesn’t open the case despite how much he wants to, now that he knows what’s in it. “But—”

Len’s frown deepens. “You’re my partner, Mick. A little argument isn’t going to get in the way of that.”

Mick blinks. A little argument is not the same as a burning building, not at all. But he steps forward and opens the case, and—oh. Well, this _is_ lovely.

~

“Package deal,” Len drawls, and Hunter’s face curls into a moue of distaste. Len goes blank, the dangerous sort of vacancy that Mick’s come to associate with bits and bobs being frozen off someone’s person. “Package. Deal,” Len repeats.

“Fine,” Hunter sighs. “Let’s get you and your pyromaniac friend on the ship.”

~

Len’s never looked worried at him before. Exasperated, irritated, furious, sure, but—

“You were going to stay in a pocket dimension that wouldn’t even exist next week,” Len says. His eyes have gone round, and he’s standing too close. “I couldn’t _leave_ you there, you have to understand, I couldn’t—”

“Y’shoulda,” Mick growls. “Would’ve been better for everyone. Why won’t you just, dammit Lenny, why won’t you just leave me the hell alone?”

Len’s hand snaps up, holds on tight to the side of his neck. “I made you a promise,” he says, low. “And I don’t go back on my word.” Mick takes a deep breath and tries, like every time Len gets like this, not to get lost.

He is, as always, unsuccessful.

~

He feels Len’s nose break under his fist, and something matching in his own chest breaks right along with it. And sure, Mick gives him another couple halfhearted swings for the look of the thing, but when Lenny collapses down onto the corrugated deck of this stupid glass prison cell, Mick goes right with him. “Lenny,” he says, the word coming out too strangled to sound like anything other than a sob.

“Oh, Mick,” Len breathes, his voice soft and bubbling through the blood dripping down his face. “You back with me?” And then he reaches his hand out—the hand he’d fukkin, that he’d _frozen off_ so the team couldn’t kill Mick there at the end—and cups Mick’s jaw.

Mick freezes for a moment but then tugs him over, sprawling him across his lap. He ducks his head and breathes Len in, ice and blood and metal and something entirely _him_ and, “Lenny I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”

Len shushes him, those cool fingers of his sliding up from his jaw and rubbing gently on the bristles at the top of Mick’s head.

~

“Are you…” Sara asks, something small and hurt in her voice.

Mick is. Not well. Incredibly drunk. Mourning. All of the above.

“I know you’re friends with him,” he says slowly, looking up at her from where he’s sprawled on the floor of Len’s quarters. There’s a bottle of something bright blue in one of his hands, one of Len’s shirts in the other. He’s wearing Len’s ring, the knuckle of his pinky smarting where he’d forced it down over the bone. He meets her eyes; she looks concerned. “But let’s not pretend he means as much to you as he does to me.”

She bristles. “He was—”

“I love him,” Mick says, matter-of-fact, cutting her off. He has found that in his inebriation he is entirely incapable of thinking—much less talking—about Len in the past tense. “And in more than in a brotherly sorta way.”

Sara falls silent, contemplating this, and then sits down on the floor next to his head. She plucks the bottle from his unresisting fingers and brings it to her lips. “Huh,” she says, and takes a swig. “Guess he inspired that in people.”

Mick grunts and steals the bottle back. “I haven’t told him. Dunno if he feels the same way.”

She brings up her knees and crosses her arms over them, resting her chin. “He probably did,” she says. “He was very focused on you.”

“We been together thirty years,” Mick tells her. Her eyes widen slightly, but he waves her off. “He fixates. He does that.” Slowly, telegraphing her movements—at least _she_ remembers that he’s a trained fukkin assassin—she lifts a hand and places it gently on the crown of Mick’s head.

“I’m so sorry,” she says.

“Me too,” Mick rumbles, and takes a drink.

~

“Mick, wake up.”

Cool fingers brush along Mick’s jaw, and what’s gotta be a thumb presses into his bottom lip. Mick parts his lips instinctively before even opening his eyes, flicks out his tongue. He catches a hint of ozone, something like ice.

His eyes snap open, and then shut again immediately—it’s so damn _bright_. He thought he turned off the lights in Lenny’s room before he’d passed out on the bunk. But those fingers are insistent, trailing down his jaw and neck, settling lightly over his heart. “Mick, c’mon.”

He’s hallucinating. That blue drink was something psychedelic, that’s what this has to be.

“I’m not a hallucination.”

And well—it’s Len, obviously it’s Len, Mick knows his voice almost better than he knows his own, so he cracks an eye and looks up. Len’s leaning over him, that beautiful smirk firmly in place, his coat stretched tight over his shoulders, not a bruise or a scratch or a single mark on him.

He’s also vaguely transparent and glowing with the same color blue that was swirling under the Time Masters’ stupid Oculus-thing.

“Lenny,” he rasps, lifting his hand, and when he makes contact with Len’s cheek, Len closes his eyes and leans into his touch. Mick’s eyes widen. “How?”

Len turns his head and kisses Mick’s palm. “I’m Time,” he says simply, imbuing the word with what’s obviously universes full of meaning but which isn’t actually much of an explanation at all.

“You,” Mick says, or tries to say. He lifts his other hand to Len’s other cheek. “I thought you were dead.”

“I gathered that,” Len drawls, and then leans in. “I also heard what you said to Sara, but it took me a bit to figure out physicality.” He moves closer. “It’s harder than you might think.”

Mick blinks at him, at his smirk, at his blue-washed face, and nods slowly. It’s low-hanging fruit, and Len clearly wants him to deliver. Mick clears his throat. “That’s not the only thing that’s harder than you might think.”

Len’s smirk flips seamlessly into a pleased grin. “There you are,” he says, and drops his head. The first press of his lips against Mick’s is exactly as exhilarating as Mick had always imagined it would be, though the crack of ozone and faint buzzing under his skin was probably less to do with adrenaline and more to do with the fact that Len apparently isn’t human—or something—anymore.

“Mick,” Len breathes, breaking them apart but only going far enough that he can rest their foreheads together.

“You came back,” Mick rumbles, more a seismic event than actual words, and hauls Len closer. Len, for his part, goes easily, wraps ice-blue hands around Mick’s biceps and laughs into his neck.

“Of course I did,” he says. “I promised, didn’t I?”

 

**Author's Note:**

> i swear to shit, if the writers do not fix this damn CATASTROPHE, i am going to, i dunno, seethe relentlessly on the internet.


End file.
